"Just in, Middleweight Champion Togarai Keishige has been banned from the JNBA this week. After scandal after scandal, Association Head Hideyuki Ohashi has finally released a public statement. It reads: 'Keishige, as much as a showstopper as he is, has hurt too many people consistently to keep on this roster. I have no doubts about his skill; it might even be too much for us. He does not fight dirty, I've known him for years and can attest to that fact. It's just…’"

  I clicked the power button, silencing the television mid-sentence. The room plunged into an oppressive quiet, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. My reflection stared back at me from the black screen, jaw tight, eyes hollow with frustration. I couldn't stand to hear it anymore. How could they do this to me?

  I've done so much for this organization—given them my blood, sweat, and broken bones—and this is how they repay me? Banning me? I sell out stadiums! People love to see me fight. It’s not my fault they mismatched me against those guys. They weren’t on my level, and I warned them about it. It’s not like I wanted to hurt anyone, can you blame me for what happened?! I don’t feel good about it—none of it sits right with me.

  My eyes fell to the white coffee table in front of me, its pristine surface scattered with unopened letters and empty water bottles. My phone lay there, a black rectangle buzzing faintly with incoming notifications. The screen flashed with mentions and messages I had no desire to read. I picked it up and unlocked it with a quick swipe of my thumb, the familiar rhythm of tapping my passcode somehow grounding me.

  Opening X, I stared at the notification tab, my stomach twisting. My most recent post stared back at me—a picture of me and Coach Indo after my last fight. We were smiling wide, me holding the championship belt, Indo clapping me on the back. The caption read, “Another win! Couldn't have done it without the best coach in the business. On to the next one!” I had no idea when I posted that it would be the last win of my JNBA career. That it would cost me everything.

  My thumb hovered over the screen before I forced myself to scroll. The replies came in waves, a flood of emotions and opinions that hit me like a punch to the gut.

  The first one read, "How’d it feel putting Jacob Weiscmeher in the hospital?" My grip on the phone tightened as anger flared. I had half a mind to chuck it across the room and watch it shatter against the wall. But I held back, my breathing heavy, jaw clenched. I didn’t want to put him in the hospital. I never wanted to.

  I tapped the reply to see more, my chest knotting tighter with each word. "He’s gonna live anyway." I muttered under my breath, more to reassure myself than anyone else. Give him half a year to recover, maybe more. The doctors said he’d be fine eventually.

  The next few replies weren’t much better. Some called me a monster, others accused me of being reckless, a danger to the sport. Then, scattered among the chaos, I saw a few supportive comments. My heart lifted slightly until I noticed they weren’t for me. They were all for Indo. “Coach Indo is the real MVP.” one said. “Indo’s a class act. Hope he finds a fighter who doesn’t ruin his reputation.” read another.

  None of them congratulated me. None of them even acknowledged what I’d accomplished. My hands shook as I set the phone down on the coffee table, staring blankly ahead. For the first time, the silence in the room wasn’t calming—it was suffocating. I leaned back into the worn leather couch, the creak of the material filling the void. My mind spun in circles, searching for an explanation, a reason to justify Ohashi’s actions. I wanted to understand him, to believe he hadn’t betrayed me. But no matter how I turned it over in my head, I kept hitting the same wall.

  All I’d done was win. And somehow, that was enough to end me.

  Others' approval didn’t decide my happiness, but it for sure boosted it. Every cheer, every roar of the crowd, fueled me. All I ever wanted was to give people a show, to entertain them. That was my craft, my purpose. Right now, the approval wasn’t there, and neither was the joy. I shut off my phone, the screen fading to black like the audience’s adoration.

  As if on cue, the entire house plunged into darkness. The faint hum of electricity disappeared, leaving an eerie stillness. My stomach tightened. A power outage? At this hour?

  Boots scuffled across the floor behind me, the sound faint but unmistakable. I whipped my head around, my senses sharpening. My eyes darted across the dim outlines of my living room, but there was nothing.

  I froze, listening. I heard something. I know I did. My pulse quickened as I unlocked my phone and turned on the flashlight. The beam of light cut through the shadows, illuminating my open kitchen. I stepped forward, my bare feet brushing against the cold floor. My heart pounded in my ears.

  Still, nothing. Just the usual clutter—a few dishes on the counter, a bag of rice left open, the bonsai tree standing proudly on its pedestal.

  Except... beneath the tree. A lump of something black.

  The power snapped back on, the sudden brightness making me wince. I turned off my flashlight and slowly approached the kitchen. My body moved on instinct, muscles tense, fists clenched. As I drew closer, the black shape came into focus.

  A lump of coal.

  I stared at it, my breathing shallow. Someone had broken into my home, shut off the power, and left this. A chill crawled down my spine. My eyes darted to the clock on the stove. It was 12:14 a.m.

  For a moment, I stood frozen. Who would do this? Why would they do this? My house wasn’t some fortress, but I wasn’t easy prey either. I was a boxer, a champion. It didn’t add up.

  My fingers trembled as I grabbed my phone and called the police. I reported the break-in, my voice steady despite the fear gnawing at me. When they arrived, they took it seriously—especially after confirming the power outage. It had been localized to my house for precisely two minutes. Forensics examined the coal. No prints. No fibers. No sign of how it got there. Nothing. They couldn’t explain it, and without leads, they closed the case.

  That should’ve been the end of it. It wasn’t.

  This wasn’t just some prank or robbery gone wrong. My mind turned to the absurd, searching for meaning where logic failed. I’d studied Christian theology extensively during my downtime. As ridiculous as it sounded, this screamed “Santa Claus.” Santa Claus—Saint Nicholas, Kris Kringle, whatever you called him—was supposed to be a myth. An invention of Thomas Nast in 1863, a symbol of holiday cheer. He couldn’t exist.

  And yet...

  I looked back at the coal, sitting innocuously in an evidence bag on my kitchen counter. Unless the world’s greatest thief had decided to break into my house—of all places—and leave a lump of coal as a joke, I had no other explanation. Why me? What had I done? Was this some cosmic punishment? A test? I couldn’t let it go. My life had been built on challenges, on facing impossible odds and coming out on top. This was no different. If Santa Claus was real—if he’d somehow walked into my home, evaded detection, and left this coal as a message—then I had to respond.

  I had three and a half billion yen left in my accounts. That was enough to sustain my lifestyle for twenty years, without the JNBA. I didn’t need to fight for money anymore. I needed to fight for something. This year, I would train harder than ever before. I would sharpen every skill, push every limit. I would prepare for a battle unlike any I’d faced in the ring.

  Because I would find Santa Claus.

  And I would beat him.

  One year later..

  It was twelve ten at night, and the house was steeped in silence. The motion detector I’d set up in the chimney was primed, its trigger linked to the subtle vibration in my phone pocket. The lights were off, plunging the house into darkness. I wanted him to feel welcome. No need to mess with the power this time.

  In my other pocket, I kept another device—a remote tied to my emergency generator, ready to kick in if the power went out again. No surprises. This was my battleground, and I was prepared.

  Crash!

  My breath hitched as a dull thud echoed from the chimney. Dust trickled down from the mantel, and I could feel my heartbeat spike. Then, the motion detector buzzed, a small vibration confirming that something—or someone—was here.

  My grip tightened around the generator remote as I strained to listen. Heavy steps. They landed with precision, moving slowly across my living room and into the kitchen. Each step made my pulse quicken, but I stayed hidden behind the TV stand, waiting. The figure stopped by my bonsai tree. My heart was racing, but I forced my hands steady as I flicked the emergency generator on. With a hum, the lights flared to life, illuminating the scene in an instant.

  There he was.

  The red suit. The stout belly. The white beard and hair that glowed like frost in the fluorescent light. Santa Claus.

  The man himself stood by my bonsai tree, his eyes glinting with a timeless sharpness, far from jolly. He snapped his fingers, and I tensed, expecting the lights to die—but they didn’t. My emergency generator held steady.

  I stepped out from behind the TV stand, slow and deliberate, clapping my hands mockingly. “I can’t believe it. You actually exist.”

  His eyes met mine, sharp and calculating, as he chuckled low. His voice was rough, gravelly with age, but it carried a strange weight. “Ah, Togarai. You’ve gained a few pounds.”

  Of course he knew my name. That shouldn’t surprise me. My lips curled into a smirk as I slid my MMA gloves onto my hands. “I have. I’m going to need a lot of punching power to take you down.”

  He laughed, deep and resonant, as the sack slung over his back began to shift. The opening stretched wider, impossibly so, revealing what looked like a swirling void. The darkness inside it felt alive, like it was watching me. “Ohohoho, so you want to fight?”

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  I matched his laugh with one of my own, my smirk twisting into something devilish. “I’m glad you caught on quickly! You uprooted my life last year. My entire worldview has changed because of you!”

  His gloved hand reached into the void of the sack, pulling out a massive candy cane. It was heavy, blunt at one end, and terrifyingly sharp at the other. He twirled it with surprising ease before resting it against his shoulder. “Good. You needed some change.”

  I let my hands hang loosely by my sides, keeping my stance relaxed but ready. “If you apologize right now, I’ll stop. I’d feel bad crippling such a good man.”

  Santa gave a knowing smile, his free hand moving to his belt, where an array of strange, gleaming tools hung. He holstered the candy cane behind his back, locking it in place. “So you did study your theology. That’s good. But you’ll need more than knowledge to take me down. I’ll show you what ol’ Saint Nick can do.”

  The room shifted. A sudden gust of wind swept through, scattering furniture like toys. Chairs toppled, tables slid across the floor, and shelves emptied themselves with loud crashes. When it settled, we were left with a clear, open space in the center of the room—perfect for a fight.

  Santa cracked his knuckles, his grin widening. “Feel free to go all-out from the start. I won’t even use my Christmas magic. Let’s see if you’re as strong as you think you are.”

  I slid into my stance, muscles coiled and ready. My breath came slow and steady as adrenaline surged through my veins. “You’re going to regret saying that.”

  I dashed toward him, closing the distance in the blink of an eye. Santa raised his guard, his gloved fists meeting my oncoming strike. My right jab crashed into his forearms with a satisfying thud, but his stance didn’t falter. His guard was firm, solid as a brick wall.

  I gritted my teeth and roared, “How about your stomach?!”

  Pivoting on my heel, I threw a vicious hook into his gut. My fist sank into his belly, but instead of folding, the fat seemed to absorb the impact, swelling outward like a spring before shoving my arm back. The recoil nearly threw me off balance.

  I snarled and came back with a left hook, aiming for his temple, but he caught it with his forearm. His eyes narrowed, glowing with an ominous, otherworldly red that made my skin crawl.

  I hopped back, keeping my rhythm steady as I worked to control my breathing. “I’m better now than I ever was in the JNBA,” I said, throwing my shoulders back confidently. “you stand no chance!”

  Santa smiled, his face calm despite the heat of the fight. He spread his arms wide, taunting me. “Ohohoho, your bark is worse than your bite!”

  His mockery only fueled me further. I stepped in with explosive speed, leading with a right overhand. My fist smashed into his chest, tearing through the fabric of his red suit. I didn’t let up, following with a sharp jab, a wild hook, and every combination I could string together. The air was filled with the sound of my fists pounding into his guard and the heavy rhythm of my breaths as I pushed my body to its limit.

  Santa’s eyes never wavered. Even through my barrage, he calmly watched each punch, his hands expertly absorbing the blows. He was studying me.

  Desperate for an opening, I clawed at his forearm, breaking his guard just enough to throw a savage haymaker. My knuckles connected with his nose, landing square.

  It felt like I’d punched a pillow. The force was enough to send his massive frame flying. He tumbled backward, flipping midair, before landing on his feet that cracked the marble beneath him. He skidded to a stop, his boots scraping the floor as he steadied himself.

  Santa wiped his nose with his sleeve, smearing a streak of blood across the red fabric. He pinched his nostril with his thumb and blew out the rest. “Kris Kinetics.” he muttered, shaking his head with a smirk. “I tell you, it’s no joke.”

  He reached into thin air, forming a small wrapped present between his fingers. The sight made my stomach twist. “You’re a real naughty one, aren’t you?” he said with a chuckle, tossing the gift to the ground. “Here, have some presents!”

  The package exploded as it hit the floor, bursting into a cloud of red, white, and green smoke. It engulfed the room in seconds, blinding me. The air was thick, swirling with festive colors, but I forced myself to stay calm.

  “You can breathe the smoke, don’t worry!” Santa’s voice echoed through the fog.

  I backed up cautiously, my fists raised, trying to find a wall to orient myself. My breathing quickened as I strained to pick up any sound. Then, out of nowhere, an arm snaked around my neck.

  Santa had me in a chokehold.

  I gasped, clawing at his arm, trying to pry him off. His grip was ironclad, unyielding. “These arms...” he growled, his breath hot against my ear, “were forged through intense workouts at the North Pole! You may punch better, but I’m stronger!”

  Panic surged through me as my vision began to blur. I had seconds—four at most—before I blacked out. Summoning every ounce of strength I had left, I bent my knees and leapt, carrying him with me.

  Our combined weight shot downward like a missile. The marble floor rushed up to meet us, and I angled my body so only his head would take the impact. He was taller than me, he’d hit first.

  Santa didn’t panic. At the last second, he braced his neck and rolled, using the momentum to throw me forward. My body hit the ground hard, skidding across the marble.

  I gritted my teeth, forcing myself to roll to my feet despite the aching in my ribs. Santa was already standing, dusting off his suit. His composure was maddening. With a roar, I charged again, my body screaming in protest. I launched a snap jab at his face, but this time, he leaned back, dodging it effortlessly.

  What?!

  Santa explained, the glow in his right eye intensifying until it was almost blinding. “My Saint’s Eye has adapted to your patterns. You can keep trying, though.”

  I gritted my teeth, refusing to back down. My punches flew faster, harder, each one aimed with deadly intent behind them. Every jab, hook, and uppercut was on the mark—but it didn’t matter. Santa dodged them all effortlessly, his movements fluid that it had no right to be, as if he saw each strike before it came.

  Out of desperation, I aimed for his stomach again, only to have my fist swallowed by that maddening cushion of fat. The recoil sent me stumbling back, my frustration mounting.

  Before I could recover, Santa grasped my wrist in an iron grip. His strength was unreal. With one arm, he lifted me off the ground like a ragdoll. I kicked wildly, trying to break free, but his hold was unshakable.

  He whipped me toward the ground. Just as I braced for the impact that would surely shatter my spine, he stopped short, holding me suspended an inch above the marble floor. Then he bent my wrist, locking the joint in place with precision that made my nerves scream in protest.

  “This is where it ends.” he said, his tone heavy with finality. “Stop this folly. There’s no shame in surrender after what you've shown.”

  No. My pride, my resolve, my very existence refused to let it end here.

  Through the searing pain in my wrist, I summoned all my strength and did the unthinkable. I bent my own wrist further, snapping something inside with a sickening crack. The agony was blinding, but it gave me the angle I needed.

  I roared, my voice echoing through the room, “You’re right! It ends—for you!”

  With every ounce of power I had left, I flexed my right arm to its absolute limit and drove my fist upward. My knuckles collided with his chin in an earth-shaking uppercut.

  Santa’s head snapped back, his chin swinging like a loose pendulum. The glow in his eyes extinguished instantly, replaced by a hollow darkness. His massive frame began to topple like a felled tree.

  I kicked up from the ground and scrambled backward, heart pounding as I avoided being crushed beneath him. I did it. I won!

  Impossibly, Santa caught himself.

  The candy cane holstered at his waist shot into his hand summoned by an invisible force. He slammed it into the ground, using it as a crutch to steady himself. Slowly, he rose to his full height, towering over me once more.

  “Ohohoho...” he chuckled, though his voice carried a dangerous edge now. “Nobody’s made me this angry in a long time. Sorry, Togarai, but I’ll have to use this against you.” He gripped the candy cane like a rapier, its sharp tip gleaming under the light. His stance shifted, exuding the elegance of a swordsman who had trained for centuries.

  I barely had time to react before he struck. The first jab hit my right shoulder, piercing through muscle with pinpoint accuracy. My arm fell limp, unresponsive.

  Before I could process what had happened, he struck again—my left shoulder, my legs, my chest, my ankles. His movements were blindingly fast. My body slackened with every hit until I could no longer stand. In total, he pierced me no fewer than twenty-five times. I collapsed to the floor, my limbs useless, my body trembling.

  Santa exhaled, his breath forming snow-like crystals in the air. “Silent Night Symphony.” he said softly, his voice carrying a tinge of melancholy.

  He loomed over me, his shadow swallowing me whole. His expression wasn’t triumphant, nor was it mocking. Instead, there was sadness in his eyes, as though he regretted what he had to do. Fear coursed through me, igniting into anger. I shouted, my voice cracking with desperation, “I didn’t hurt those people on purpose! It’s part of boxing! I didn’t deserve that coal!”

  He silenced me with a wave of his hand. “It wasn’t about the injuries, son. It’s your attitude about life. Boxing wasn’t the problem—you were. When’s the last time you met with your fans? Talked to your family? Checked on your friends?” His words hit me harder than any punch. My mind raced, searching for an answer, but the silence stretched on.

  “It’s Christmas,” he continued gently. “and they miss you.”

  Santa reached into his sack and pulled out a small, neatly wrapped letter. He jabbed my limp right arm with the blunt end of his candy cane, forcing a jolt of feeling back into it. “Here,” he said, placing the letter on my chest. “open this.”

  With trembling fingers, I tore through the packaging and held the letter close to my face. The handwriting was uneven, shaky, and unmistakably that of a child. The English words were scrawled across the page with heartfelt sincerity.

  Hi! My name is Max, and I’m 8 years old. I hope you and Mrs. Claus and all the reindeer are doing great! Do you have a favorite cookie? My mom makes the best chocolate chip ones, so I’ll leave those out for you, and some carrots for Rudolph.

  This year, I’ve tried really hard to be good. I helped my little sister build her Lego castle when she got stuck, and I even shared my Nintendo time with her (even though she only picks Mario!). I did my chores too, except for that one time I forgot to take out the trash, but I said sorry, so I think that counts as being good, right?

  For Christmas, I really, really want an action figure of Togarai Keishige. He’s my favorite boxer EVER! I saw him in a video once, and my dad says he’s from Japan. He’s super cool because he never gives up, even when he’s fighting someone way stronger. He punches so fast, like WHOOSH WHOOSH, and I try to do that in front of the mirror, but I just look silly.

  I think Togarai is kind of like you, Santa, because you both inspire people. He makes me want to be brave and work hard, even when stuff is tough. If you could bring me a Togarai action figure, I promise I’ll keep being nice and brave, just like him. I’ll even let my sister play with it (but not too much, because she might chew on it, and Togarai deserves better).

  Thank you, Santa. You’re the best. Oh, and tell Rudolph hi from me!

  Love,

  Max

  A single tear slipped from my eye, landing silently on the crumpled letter in my hands. The raw sincerity of the child’s words cut through my anger, leaving me exposed.

  Santa knelt slightly, meeting my gaze with his glowing red eyes, now softer. “He doesn’t know about your scandals.” he said gently. “One day, he might. But if you start changing now—truly changing—then by the time he’s old enough to understand, he might still love his action figure... and you.” He stood, lifting his sack over his shoulder. With a wave of his hand, the room transformed back to its original state. Furniture returned to its rightful place, and the chaos of our battle vanished as if it had never happened.

  Santa turned back to me, his voice steady and firm. “Redemption, if sought out, is attainable for everyone. I’ve leveraged some favors. If, by this time next year, you’ve proven yourself worthy—if you’ve lived a truly nice year—you will be unbanned from the JNBA.”

  I will be nice. No matter what it takes!

  Santa adjusted his bag, a small smile curling his lips. “Your injuries will heal completely once I disappear, and you’ll regain movement in about five minutes. Use that time to think about what you’ll do next.”

  My voice cracked as I whispered, “Thank you... I’m sorry for hurting you.”

  His laugh echoed warmly, filling the room with fatherly comfort. “Oohohoho, don’t mention it! I’ve got magic to heal that sort of thing anyway. Besides,” his grin widened, “you gave me a good fight. Merry Christmas, Togarai.”

  With that, he vanished into a swirl of red and green light, his laugh lingering in the air long after he was gone. I stared at the ceiling, my body still unable to move but my heart heavier than ever. I felt a spark of hope.

  “Merry Christmas to you too, Santa."